


A Tantalizing Touch

by narcissablaxk



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Depression, Depression mention, Internalized Homophobia (mentioned), Jim tries to help him get over it, M/M, Oswald is scared to touch people, mental illness mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:16:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14434254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: After being rejected by Ed, Oswald is scared to touch someone, for fear they take it the wrong way. Jim tries to teach him that he wants to be touched.





	A Tantalizing Touch

Oswald couldn’t remember if he’d always been this way or if this was a new development; as Jim wrenched him closer by the lapels of his jacket, his teeth bared, Oswald’s hands still lifted away from him, not quite in surrender, but in an effort not to touch him. Was he afraid that Jim would be repulsed by his touch? Was he trying to keep Jim from escalating the violent hold he had on his coat? He had been in this position enough to know that Jim was a gamble, but he truly wasn’t afraid of him, so why did he feel the need to make sure his hands were completely free? 

Jim’s eyes left his own to settle on his lifted hands, and Oswald felt insecurity wash over him; even Jim noticed. Jim’s eyes raked over his hands, the slight tremble in them, and returned to his face, flickering, as his gaze often did, between his eyes, his mouth, and something just below that.

“Tell me where Nygma is,” he repeated, the grip on his lapel loosening just so. Oswald allowed himself to rock back onto his feet instead of lingering on his tiptoes with the newfound lenience. 

“I don’t know where he is,” Oswald answered. “He doesn’t exactly share that kind of information with me.” 

The grip tightened once more, and Oswald felt his shoes slip on the slick tile, bringing him even closer to Jim. “Don’t lie to me,” he growled. 

“I would never lie to you,” Oswald said truthfully, though Jim’s pursed lips told him he took it like a joke. “I don’t know where he is.” 

With an aggrieved sigh, Jim released him, his hands catching Oswald around the shoulders when Oswald struggled to regain his balance. When he was sure he could stand on his own, he patted Jim’s shoulder reassuringly, feeling the sting of shame that followed. Immediately, he withdrew his hand. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, turning away from him, Victor easily passing him his cane that had clattered to the ground when Jim grabbed hold of him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jim shrugged. “But if he comes by, let me know.” 

He didn’t even know what Oswald was apologizing for. Instead of correcting him, Oswald gave him a dejected shrug and limped away, toward the black leather couches in the middle of the room. He felt Jim’s eyes follow him, no doubt trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with him, where his fire had gone, but Oswald was suddenly too tired to explain it to him. 

He couldn’t even explain it to himself. 

***

Oswald knew what depression felt like; he had struggled with it his entire life. He knew the difference between a bad resurgence and seasonal depression, the difference between a bad day and what would turn out to be a bad month. 

This was a bad month. 

He spent hours staring at paperwork, retaining none of the words, aimlessly tapping his pen on the desk. He felt an overwhelming sense of apathy, like something was sitting on his chest and every breath was infinitely too much work. He let alcohol dull some of that pain, despite his mother’s voice telling him that it wasn’t the way. He went hours without taking his medication, letting the pain in his leg reach a breaking point before Victor could force him to put the pills in his mouth. 

He was adrift, lost without purpose. He had his club back, a marginal hold in the underworld that increased every day that Sofia was gone, but he felt no satisfaction from that success. The closest he got to feeling anything at all was when Martin was around. 

Sometimes, the boy would come into his bedroom in the mansion and, without any regard as to whether Oswald was asleep or just staring at the wall, would crawl onto the mattress and settle in beside him, staring at the ceiling or scribbling happily in his notebook. 

Some days they didn’t even interact; they just existed, and those days weren’t bad. Oswald would watch him draw or write and sometimes throw an arm over his torso and hold him like his mother used to do for him. 

Other days Martin would quiz him on sign language, and while even the thought of engaging his mind seemed like too difficult a task, Oswald always obliged. He knew small words, and the alphabet; Martin was learning at school, and at least twice a week he brought home a new word for Oswald to learn. 

He went on like this for weeks (he wasn’t sure how many, days passed like mud) before Jim came back to the mansion, all slick hair and blue eyes and demands. Oswald barely heard him, he was so intent on counting the threads of the cushion on the couch. 

It wasn’t until Jim moved from his standing position in the doorway to sitting beside him that his presence really sunk in. He snatched the cushion from Oswald’s grip, Oswald’s hands jerking back in response, and scrutinized him for a moment before he spoke.

“What’s going on?” his voice was unbearably soft, worry laced in there. “Are you sick?” 

Oswald wanted to laugh. Of course he was sick! Wasn’t that why he was locked in Arkham? Wasn’t that why his stupid brain made him feel this way? At the same time, a proud part of his mind rebelled. Of course he wasn’t sick; just because he was depressed didn’t mean he wasn’t a normal fucking person, right? 

Instead, he just released a weak chuckle and shrugged. 

“Did something happen to you?” Worry had completely taken over Jim’s voice now, and even as he asked the question, he felt the man shift closer to him. 

“Wouldn’t that just be in everyone’s best interests,” he answered sarcastically. 

“No, it wouldn’t,” Jim insisted, and suddenly, he was too close, the smell of his aftershave too overwhelming, and Oswald lurched up from his seat and moved away from him, feeling that same ache in his chest, the same fear, the same mistrust in his own hands. 

Jim stood, mirroring his movements, but stayed near the couch. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked, and again, Oswald felt anger, bitterness, rising in his throat like bile. 

“Of course not, James. The perfect Captain of the GCPD would never do anything wrong,” he was being cruel now, and he knew it. But Jim just furrowed his brow and said nothing. “Not until you get the nasty germs of a gay man on you.” 

He turned away to pour himself a drink, partly because he hadn’t had one today, and partly because he couldn’t bear to look at Jim’s face. He remembered, vividly, reaching out to touch Ed’s lapels, to smooth his tie, and seeing the way his eyes dropped to Oswald’s hand, a warning, or a reproach. He remembered the way it ached for weeks after that, how he was completely aware of his hands, where his hands itched to touch. 

He had never hated himself more than when he realized there was a fundamental part of himself that people would always hate. He had been coddled, loved too much by his mother, by his father, and despite his own hardships, he was used to being hated for something he did, not something he was. 

“Oswald,” Jim’s voice was quiet, cautious. “I am sorry if I ever gave you that impression, but it was not my intention.” 

He knew that, knew that he was projecting, but that didn’t make him feel any better. The glass blurred in front of him as his eyes filled with frustrated tears.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“God, no, Jim, I don’t want to talk about it,” the tears were flowing in earnest now, and even though Oswald had kept his back to Jim, he knew he could hear them. “Just go.” 

There was a long moment of silence, where Oswald worried that Jim was going to come to him instead of following directions, but after a moment, Oswald heard his footsteps leading out down the hallway and out the front door. 

***

Jim returned the next morning, two to-go cups of coffee in his hands, a sunny smile on his face. It seemed the events of the day before were completely forgotten. 

“It’s my day off,” he explained and stepped past Oswald, who hadn’t said a word yet, and into the living room. Perhaps even worse than having a chipper Jim Gordon in his home when he felt like complete garbage, Oswald learned that the godforsaken man had a plan to make him feel better. 

“Sit with me,” he patted the couch invitingly, and even though his chest clenched at the thought, Oswald obliged. Jim held out his hands, palms up, and raised his eyebrows at Oswald expectantly. 

“What?” he asked, irritated. 

“Put your hands on top of mine,” Jim prompted. “It’s a game I used to play on the playground. You put your hands on top of mine and I try to slap them before you can pull them away.” 

Oswald curled his hands into protective fists. “This doesn’t sound like a fun game.” 

“Don’t you trust me?” Jim asked, his voice soft. “If you don’t like it, we’ll stop. I promise.” 

Hesitantly, achingly aware that his hands were trembling, Oswald spread his hands over Jim’s, just barely brushing against the skin. It was a tantalizing feeling, and it wasn’t until Jim smiled at him that Oswald realized it had been weeks since he touched someone’s hand. Since someone other than Martin wanted to touch him. 

The revelation made him want to weep again. 

“Now, pay attention to my hands, so when I try to slap yours – you can pull them away,” Jim explained, his eyes on Oswald rather than their hands. “Like…this –”

His hand didn’t even slap Oswald’s, barely patted, but Jim’s gleeful smile made Oswald smirk at his childish happiness. They replaced their hands and repeated the motion until Jim tried to start playing tricks. 

Instead of just swinging his hand up, he would use his pinkie finger to just barely trace the tender part of Oswald’s palm, making him jerk his hands back in anticipation of the slap that never came. Jim would tease him, telling him that Oswald was “terribly jumpy,” and Oswald found that after a while, Jim wasn’t even trying to slap his hands; he was just touching them, his fingers gentle and apologetic when they had no right to be. 

They broke for lunch, Olga insisting that they eat, and Oswald realized he felt better than he had in a long time. Jim chose to sit beside him rather than at the other end of the table, and they talked easily about Gotham, about things like art and literature. 

Oswald expected them to go back to the game after lunch, but Jim was distracted with the arrival of Martin, who regarded him with wary eyes. 

“Don’t worry, Martin, this is an old friend of mine, Jim Gordon,” Oswald told him. 

Martin immediately scooped up his notepad and scribbled. “You’re out of bed, Papa.” 

Jim raised his eyebrows at Oswald, who felt his face flush. He had already cried in front of Jim, he didn’t need the man to know he had been wasting away in bed for weeks. “I am,” he told Martin cheerfully. “Because when a friend visits, you have to get out of bed.” 

Martin tore of the piece of paper and scribbled something else. “Thank you for helping Papa get out of bed,” he wrote, showing it pointedly to Jim. 

“Oh,” a smile took over Jim’s face before he could censor it, “it was my pleasure.” 

“Okay, Martin, I’m sure you have homework to do, don’t you?” Oswald tilted his head at Martin pointedly. The boy wrinkled his brow and shrugged. “Yes, you do,” Oswald insisted through clenched teeth. “Scoot, young man.” 

Better to have the boy doing homework before he could tell Jim Gordon that his Papa was always talking about the strong policeman with blue eyes. 

“He calls you Papa,” Jim pointed out as they watched Martin go up the stairs. 

“I’m the closest thing he’s got,” Oswald replied softly. “For all intents and purposes, he is my son.” 

Jim smiled, still looking at the stairs. He seemed to be lost in thought; Oswald was content to let him have his reverie, but he snapped himself out of it and offered him his hand. Easily now, because they had just spent hours touching, Oswald reached out and took it. 

“Take me to your bedroom.” 

Oswald blinked, trying not to gape, but still, he felt like his surprise was written all over his face. “Um – well –”

“Do you trust me?” 

Oswald didn’t have to answer; he kept his hand in Jim’s and led him down the hall to the master suite, shutting the door behind him. He had made a decision in allowing Jim to play that hand slapping game with him this morning to trust the man; he was not about to let up now, no matter how much having Jim Gordon in his bedroom sent his pulse spiraling out of control. 

It didn’t help that Jim was suddenly kicking off his shoes and pulling Oswald toward the bed. “Lie down,” he instructed. 

Oswald did as he was told, nerves still roiling in his belly. Or was it anticipation? He couldn’t tell. 

“I’m going to touch you,” Jim warned him as he climbed up on the bed after him. “You are free to touch me if you wish, but you don’t have to. If you’re uncomfortable, all you have to say is stop.” 

Oswald couldn’t even speak, could barely swallow, but gave Jim a shallow nod. 

“I don’t ever want you to think that I don’t want to touch you,” Jim said firmly while his hand trailed softly up Oswald’s arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I always want to touch you.” 

Oswald wanted to demand for him to explain, to elaborate, but Jim’s other hand landed gently on his chest, one finger just underneath the buttons of his shirt, and he was robbed of the ability to speak. The hand on his arm was drawing languid circles on his skin, soft and tentative. 

Oswald’s hand rose of its own accord and settled on top of Jim’s hand on his chest, mimicking the circles Jim was drawing on his arm. Jim smiled at him, proud, and let the hand on Oswald’s arm journey up to his neck, where one finger tilted his head to the side, exposing the long column of his throat. 

“So pale,” he breathed, as if it vexed him personally, “like a vampire.” 

Oswald laughed, the first laugh in a long time, and Jim looked pleased with himself, his fingers still traveling along his throat, reaching down to his collarbone, just easing the collar out of his way. The sensation was mesmerizing, so light it was almost overwhelming, and Oswald let his eyes flutter closed as Jim’s hand traced the underside of his jaw. 

He could feel the bed moving as Jim shifted on the mattress, one leg coming to rest on the other side of Oswald’s torso, effectively pinning him in place. His eyes sprang open again, needing to see it to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, but he wasn’t wrong. Jim was straddling him, looking positively enthralled by the bit of Oswald’s skin he was touching. 

“You can unbutton the shirt if you want,” Oswald offered. 

Immediately, Jim’s fingers set to work, nimbly undoing the buttons so fast Oswald’s head was swimming. He let his eyes close again, but as soon as he did, Jim’s hands left him. 

He opened his eyes and caught sight of him unbuttoning his own shirt. Oswald reached up and stopped him, taking the job for himself while Jim continued to touch him, softly, reverently, like he was afraid of breaking him. 

“If you want me to stop –”

“Don’t,” Oswald demanded. 

“There’s the King of Gotham I remember,” the words tumbled out of his mouth on a breath, and Oswald was entranced by how different Jim sounded now. He was so used to gruff, serious, stoic Jim, but here he was, tracing down the line of Jim’s abs and his voice was strangled, sweet, soft. 

“I don’t ever want you to think that you can’t touch me, Oswald,” he insisted, his breath just barely ghosting over Oswald’s cheek. “I don’t care what anyone else ever told you, what anyone else says. I want you to touch me.” 

Oswald obliged, his hand catching Jim’s cheek cautiously, just barely touching. Jim leaned into it, forcing Oswald to feel him. 

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, his voice just nervous enough that Oswald was shocked into stillness. “I mean, I don’t want to make you uncomfort –”

Oswald lunged forward, catching Jim’s lips clumsily for the first time, just a momentary peck. Jim chuckled and caught his lips in a better seal, pressing his whole body into Oswald’s, relishing in the way his hands finally reached for him without reservation. He didn’t want him to ever doubt that someone wanted to touch him ever again.


End file.
